When summer comes, the sea arrives

When summer comes, the sea arrives.
No matter where my body is, it comes from the direction of the sea. Bringing that wind, the scent of the tide, the feel of the sand against the soles of my feet, and the light that is far too dazzling,
it comes to me from the direction of the sea.

Yes,
there is a sea I can remember.

It was a five-minute walk for a child's legs.
After crossing two main streets and passing over the cobblestones with wave patterns,
that white sandy beach would spread out before my eyes.

From my sixth to my eighth summer,
I spent three summers there.

While walking along the shallow shore, I became obsessed with cherry tellin shells.

As I walked, straining my eyes to look at the tracks left by the receding tide,
I would find the spots where they were breathing,
bubbling up from tiny holes,
and gently dig them out with my fingers, or
pick up the ones glittering at the water's edge,
carefully collecting them so they wouldn't break.

My mother, my younger sister, and I—the three of us,
would treasure them, bring them home, put them in a glass jar,
and gaze at them in enchantment,
that pink summer, no bigger than the tip of a little finger.

I wonder where those cherry tellin shells went.

I don't know, but
when summer comes, they return as a time capsule.

When I open it,
there is that sea, from that time.


P.S.:
Yes, the cherry tellin shell is not a seasonal word for summer.
(Is it spring?)
But that's okay.
The Brazil, Santos, where those cherry tellin shells were,
that sea is an eternal summer to me.